Those are the fucking lies told to young men. Or rather half-truths. We do all those things because we want to and because they’re the right thing to do.
What nobody says is that we keep them out of syndicate business because they’re far more ruthless than the worst of us. While women are more likely to bring world peace than a bunch of men, they’re also the ones who could burn it all down with a single match. Their collective patience and memories exceed men. No one will convince me otherwise.
What we’re all thinking is the world peace they could bring isn’t what the UN envisions. It’s the women of the Four Families banding together, bringing along our septs and branches. If the other three families learn the women in mine marched into battle because of this personal attack on me—the absolute worst slight to my honor—they’ll show the world why their men are as powerful as they are. It’s the women who stand beside them; the silent force that truly keeps the balance of power. There’ll be peace because there’s nothing left.
“We need to get our shit done fast.”
“We know, Javier.” I close my eyes again and swallow. “Lo siento.” Sorry.
He doesn’t deserve me snapping at him. He takes it in stride, understanding that as much stress as he and the others are under, it’s even worse for me because Vita’s in the middle of this.
“We’ll send half the men back up to Naples. We’ll take care of this shit in Calabria tonight. We leave for Palermo in the morning.”
I force myself to think clearly.
We head back to the airport and explain to the men the new assignments. We don’t explain why. None of them need to know, and they’re all wise enough not to ask. The men who remain go to the hotel with us.
It’s the middle of the night when my cousins and I, all dressed in black with tactical gear, approach the port city of Reggio Calabria. It’s not only where the’Ndranghetaare based, it’s also the largest port in the area. It’s at one end of the shipping lanes across the Strait of Messina, the route to Sicily.
“We’re in and out in less than ten.”
My cousins and I each partner with one of our men, fanning out to the warehouses and docks we know the’Ndranghetacontrol. We don’t give a shit who’s waiting at home for the’Ndranghetamen running the shipyard. It’s like a movie as wepick off anyone in sight. It’s not shoot first, ask questions later. There are no questions we care to ask. We’re carrying explosives that’ll light up the night like it’s New Year’s.
My partner—José—and I scout our dock and quickly realize there’re people on the nearby boats who’ll see us working and would most certainly notice a pile of explosives sitting between their vessels.
“I have to go in.”
José takes the backpack I hand him and opens it along with the one he carries while I strip off my shoes, shirt, and pants. I’m never excited to get into the water in a marina. Too much oil in the water, but necessity dictates I do. As I shove my clothes into the backpack I carried, I glance at the next dock over and notice Pablo doing the same thing. He must sense me because he glances over. We nod.
While I undressed, José prepped the explosives to make it easier for me once I’m in the water. Our backpacks are waterproof, so I lift mine and strap it to my front. I ease into the water like some spec ops guy in a movie. All of us have the camo paint on to disguise us. We’ve been told with our dark eyes, we often appear like soulless demons when our lighter skin’s covered.
Good.
Motherfucker.
This water is fucking freezing.
My huevos just sought shelter inside me.
I glide under the dock and snap on my headlamp. I keep it tilted down enough for me to see but not to be a beacon to anyone else. Pablo—our highly trained biologist and chemist—is our explosives expert. He works alongside Javier, whose undergrad was in engineering, even though he became an attorney. I trust them to ensure I don’t blow myself up.
I work efficiently while I attach the bombs to the farthest part of the dock I can safely reach and the part closest to shore. We want nothing left. I swim back to the shore and hoist myself out just as Pablo does the same. There’s no time for us to dry off, so we use our shirts to shake off enough water for us to struggle into our pants. Then we’re stuffing the shirts back in the bag and taking off.
“Everything set?” Pablo glances over his shoulder.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. The one at the end didn’t attach well, so we need to get this done.”
I tap my earpiece, and I hearTres J’sresponses. They, along with their men, sprint out of the warehouses and join us at the SUVs. We pile into the vehicles, and Jorge and the other drivers reverse out of the marina. They could turn around, but we want to watch the show. Pablo has Joaquin’s laptop, and he’s tapping away like an evil genius bent on global destruction.
Okay.
Maybe that’s a little exaggerated, but he’s concentrating extra fucking hard.
“Tres, dos, uno.”
The night sky resembles ancient Pompeii with flames leaping and debris dropping like blobs of lava. The docks explode into shards of concrete and wood, rising then falling. The buildings’ glass, drywall, and steel burst outward like one of those decorative boxes strippers supposedly pop out of.
